


I know who I want to take me home

by Small_bump



Series: Closing time [1]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Aaron's a customer, M/M, Robert has a crush, Robert's a waiter, alternative universe, it's cute and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 13:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11898282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_bump/pseuds/Small_bump
Summary: There's only ten minutes left of his shift, and Robert could absolutely kill this guy.(or the one where Robert's a waiter, and he as an unexpected ending to his shift.)





	I know who I want to take me home

 

 

There's only ten minutes left of his shift, and Robert could absolutely kill this guy. Last order's at eleven, this _arsehole_ calls at ten minutes to and how fucking typical his manager is standing just opposite him, speaking to a customer, and he just can't say  _no._  He wanted to, oh how he wanted  _too,_ but he needs this job. How pathetic was that? He needed a job, that paid minimum wage and involved him wearing probably the ugliest uniform in the country. He only has himself to blame, he could work on the  _farm,_  but the thought of spending his days standing in horse shit was worse.

So he's currently standing by the bar, everyone else is _gone._ Because of course, he'd been the one to pick up the phone, seriously though, it had to be  _him._ So he was the one, forced to stay till this bloke—Livesy he thinks is the surname, his handwriting's a mess, even more so when he's in a rush to get back to a table full of teenagers before they run off and skip on the bill. It's _happened,_ and it usually comes out of  _his_ salary. He hates this place. 

Livesy—or as Robert's been calling him  _arsehole,_ okay so he wasn't very creative sue him. Was twenty minutes late,  _fucking twenty minutes._ Which is why he'd ended up the last person in the restaurant, because everyone had gone home.  _Thanks, Rita,_ she'd thrown him an apologetic smile, handed him the keys and left. She was the manager, she should have stayed. But _no,_ Robert took the order, so he was the one who had to wait for this arsehole to arrive.

Sighing, he sits down on one of the bar stools, elbow resting against the bar. It's verging on twenty-five minutes now, which means it's after midnight and Robert's about done. Screw this, he'll just throw the food in the bin and hope this you doesn't complain. It's not like they're going to pay him overtime for this, of course not. So why should he sit here and wait because this arsehole decided he wanted chicken masala at almost eleven. Who even eats curry that late? Robert's doing this guy a favour. 

His working up the courage to throw the silicon box's in the bin, consequences be damned—they can't fire him over this right? Considering half the people working here are pot heads, Robert was practically employee of the month, no _year._ Just as he stands up, the door opens, the shutters slamming against the glass.  

"Shit sorry—damn I know I'm late."

 _Fucking right he was._ Clenching his fists, Robert turns on his heels about to give this guy a piece of his mind, because  _sometimes_ the customer isn't always right, their wrong and this was one of those times. But the second, his eyes land on this guy, the words vanish from his mouth.

His _fit,_ fuck—god he shouldn't be this weak but it's been a  _while._

He hadn't gotten laid in months, a record for him, and this guy's  _fit_ as fuck, and there's no way his gonna be able to shout at him now. _Arsehole._ Usually, it didn't matter how fit the person was, Robert could still throw a punch, but this guy's giving him an apologetic smile, it's a really nice smile  _okay??_ It turns his legs to jelly,  _damn it._  

"Whatever it's fine. That'll be £12.50," Robert says, walking around the counter, standing in front of the till. 

While, _cute smile,_ fumbles for change, Robert grabs the two carrier bags and places them on the counter, waiting for him to hand over the money. His actually  _fucking cute,_ the more Robert stares, subtly of course, the harder he falls. _God, it has been a while._

"Ah! Found it, I knew I had five-pound note in here somewhere."

He takes the change, eh it seems about right, haphazardly putting it into the till. "Here you go, enjoy."

He hands  _cute smile_ the bags, watching him make sure everything's there.  _Please,_ Robert's not an Amateur, of course, everything's there. 

"Mate you're a life saver, my sisters having a bad night and curry's her favourite."

 _Great,_ now he not only has a crush, but he feels bad. This guy isn't an  _arsehole,_ his a good brother—better than he was anyway. _Nope,_ he isn't going to go there tonight. 

"No need to thank me, I didn't actually cook it, I'm just a waiter."

"Pshh, waiters are the backbone of every restaurant, don't sell yourself so short."

"Thanks, I'll be sure to tell my manager that the next time she'd ridding my arse."  

Aaron laughs, the plastic bag tangling, hitting his leg every so often. "Do you have a pen?"

"No, but I have a marker will that work?"

"Perfect."

Confused, Robert hands him the marker, giving him a questioning look. He doesn't say anything, instead, he leans forward and grabs Robert's arm, and begins to write a number on the skin just above his wrist.

"Um maybe I should have mentioned that's permeant maker."

"I guess you have no excuse not to call me then." 

He doesn't say anything else, but he does leave Robert a ten-pound tip, which Robert's sure, is the biggest tip he's ever gotten. The people who eat here are usually cheap, Robert's lucky if he gets a one  _pound_ tip on a good day. So he stands there for a moment, number scrolled across his arm, a neat  _Aaron_ written beside it and a ten-pound note in his hand. 

_Well then._

 

 

 

 

 

It takes Robert a week to work up the courage to text Aaron, because well, Robert was usually the suitor. He was the one that handed girls (and the occasional guy) his number. He waited for them to phone  _him._ It had never been the other way round and frankly, Robert didn't know what to do. 

That night, Robert had locked up and headed home, arriving to a quiet house, but Vic was still up curled up on the couch mid episode of  _breaking bad._

"Good shift?" she had asked, lifting her head as he sat down, grabbing one of the pillows and holding it close to his chest. "What's that on your arm?" Robert had just rolled his eyes, a smile forming on his lips "don't ask."

Later that night, he'd written the number down on a piece of paper, and tried his hardest to scrub the black ink from his arm. It hadn't really  _worked._

For a week, that piece of paper sat on his desk, and every night after his shift he'd glance at it for a moment before deciding against it, because he'd promised himself a while ago relationships weren't for him, they just weren't and _cute smile_ didn't seem like the fuck and never speak again type. After  _Kate,_ it just wasn't a good idea. 

It was only after Andy had broken the news that he'd popped the question to Katie that Robert said _fuck it._ He deserved to be happy, his dad be damned if he brought home a guy, his mum would be thrilled and his dad would just have to suck it up. He deserved _cute smile._

So he'd texted, and well, the rest was history.

 

 

 

 

 

 _You owe me a pint, that marker won't come off and I'm sick of people asking me questions, people are nosey._  

_I think that can be arranged. :)_

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me @victoriasugden on tumblr


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